On the brink of unconsciousness, I felt the origin of death visiting. This has been a common nightmare~ a presence in the room that wouldn't allow sleep. It's limbo. Your body resembles drift wood, as it floats helplessly in a chasm of icy desolation. The Lords Prayer is on the tip of your tongue, trying to force it's guidance into reality. Sacred words are muffled by this wretched presence. While slipping back into this world of oxygen, you expect a pair of batting eyes waiting in the washroom. Flush the toilet. Return to a much needed rest, but can you?
Fluff the pillow, stretch your spine~ 3-2-1.
This is not my room. Late night party goers are returning home. Steps and giggles in the hall. But wait, that voice is coming from a painter's radio. Someone on-air is speaking English. It's coming from next door. I float from the bed. I know that I must go next door and for some reason my instinct tells me that I can simply pass through the window and take right angles from the balcony to the tree tops to that radio voice. It was dawn when it happened. Grandfather was there smiling. So happy to see him. I breezed past his bald head, which I've always wanted to touch.
In bed, he was holding my hand. I knew it was his~ those prominent palms. Everything turned yellow and orange-- warmth at last.
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